By the end of my third roll of film, giddy and inspired by the power of that instrument in my hands with the big glass eye, I experienced a moment of pure genius; I should begin to systematically photograph the insides of people's refrigerators thereby creating an archive of unrevealed personalities, leading eventually to a psycho-social database for future study and a new movement in pseudo-genre photography -- namely, Refrigerator Art. Surprised and dumbfounded I quickly learnt that the idea of someone photographing the insides of their refrigerators was viewed as rude and insulting, an unwelcome trespass. Refrigerators were NOT to be photographed, under any circumstances. The undertow seemed to be that it might be o.k. to photograph someone in the shower, but never the leftovers. So here's a one-of-a-kind example of the lost Art some day to become a footnote somewhere maybe. Note the four cheese slices on the second shelf from the top. Doctor Flowers' Refrigerator. (I still think it was a great idea.)

Around eight tonight the thundering herd converged on Ground Zero for a once-in-a-decade testosterone resurrection. Rankin Rob and Cousin Stu who can, without really trying, leave a place looking like Woodstock brought along 25 years of exaggerated stories for a one-two punch - the big Nascar race at Bristol under the lights and a slide show of the Atlanta Olympics taken exactly 10 years ago. After a generous helping of Tanqueray and Diet Mountain Dew at room temperature sprinkled with exotic spices I learned:

… That one should always carry four or five passengers in the car so they can push when you run out of gas.

… That it's possible to pass out in a cooler full of upchuck and be shown live on TV at the same time.

… That the ZZTop World Wide Texas Tour of 1976 in Atlanta became a rite of passage for thousands requiring unmentionable exhibitions by the runaway buffalo and a pack of armadillo.

Saturday 25 November 1922. Renowned archaeologist Howard Carter stands before the final obstruction. "There lay the sealed doorway, and behind it was the answer to the question. With trembling hands I made a tiny breach, inserted the candle and peered in." Lord Carnavan, his wealthy benefactor, unable to stand the suspense any longer, inquired anxiously, "can you see anything?" It was all Carter could do to get out the words, "Yes, wonderful things." A dig into one's juvenilia is not the breaching Tutankhamun's tomb. But, the journey can unearth surprises and wonders of another kind. The previous posting on juvenilia showed the first picture taken with my first serious camera, a solitary rose. My comments were smugly dismissive; the grail would be found with more practice and learning. I even called it a 'cull'. Maybe so, but. In the last coupla days I've scanned shots from the first 15 rolls, all print film, hidden away for more than twenty years. Slack jawed I've become, the ground trembling. Instead of seeing what I didn't know then, I now see what I've forgotten ever since. A willingness to experiment. Bold spontaneity, foregoing rules. Total ignorance of conventions that determine a 'good' photograph. A gasp, the wonders of the beginner's eye.

Rummaging thru old boxes in the garage can unearth surprises, long forgotten. Here we see the first picture I ever took with a 'serious' camera. A Minolta x-570 manual SLR now considered to be a well-made classic in the advanced amateur cost range. It works fine; I still use it every trip. This shot was taken on auto with Fujicolor ASA 100 print film. At the time, my reaction was delighted surprise that it worked the way it was supposed to. Today my reaction is a quiet relief that I've had plenty of time to practice over the years.

Carl's Barber Shop is one of my most memorable discoveries, down a narrow alley and around behind the buildings on main street -startling and drenched with authenticity. I still remember that moment and my wide-eyed amazement. This photo was later published as a part of my photo essay on barber shops in Blue Ridge Country magazine. Now, 'the rest of the story…' One of his customers, a retired army officer, saw the essay and wrote wondering how he might get a copy for Carl. Immensely flattered I made and sent one right away. Thereinafter it was my mission to re-visit Franklin often and pay homage in front of the right hand window watching my photo fade from year to year in the direct sunlight. Carl's has since closed. I never met him.